“Where are you going?” said the tinker, gripping the bosom of my shirt with his blackened hand.
“I am going to Dover,” I said.
“Where do you come from?” asked the tinker, giving his hand another turn in my shirt, to hold me more securely.
“I come from London,” I said.
“What lay are you upon?” asked the tinker. “Are you a prig?”
“N-no,” I said.
“Ain’t you, by G—? If you make a brag of your honesty to me,” said the tinker, “I’ll knock your brains out.”
With his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking me, and then looked at me from head to foot.
“Have you got the price of a pint of beer about you?” said the tinker. “If you have, out with it, afore I take it away!”
I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the woman’s look, and saw her very slightly shake her head, and form “No!” with her lips.
“I am very poor,” I said, attempting to smile, “and have got no money.”
“Why, what do you mean?” said the tinker, looking so sternly at me, that I almost feared he saw the money in my pocket.
“Sir!” I stammered.